


Pâlit de la Nuit (Pale of the Night)

by Desireex17



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bohemian revolution, France - Freeform, Lotta french things maybe, Louis is pretty much prettywoman, Love, M/M, Prostitute Louis, Writer Harry, courtesan - Freeform, moulin rouge - Freeform, yeh idrk guys this is a drabble
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:13:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desireex17/pseuds/Desireex17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Truth, beauty, freedom, love. Who knew those four things could flip Harry's world upside down and drag him into the land of the Underworld. The era of the Bohemian Revolution. And Harry was at the center of it all, Paris, writing a play for none other than the Moulin Rouge. And then there was Louis. The prettiest gem in all of Europe, the courtesan of the Moulin Rouge. And who knew that Louis's first ever acting career would set him fullswing into the hopeless romantic world that he dreaded. Who would've guessed the lovely turn of events could be so cruel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pâlit de la Nuit (Pale of the Night)

Harry was nearly buzzing with excitement when he was handed the key to his flat only hours ago. The world was alive around him, there was music, the sound of clinking glasses and cheerful laughter chorusing from the streets below him. With his typewriter in one arm and a suitcase in the other he was eager to join them in the Bohemian Revolution. To live a penniless existence orbiting around truth, beauty, freedom, and love. Now two hours later and he was realizing how tight the walls around him were. The cheerful singing had turned into morose, drunken tunes about anything but beauty. Nevertheless, the distinct arguing from the flat above his was anything but lovely and saying he was having the time of his life was far from true. The paper hanging from his typewriter looked deflated as he tried to convey his thoughts but failed with each distraction. His hands were knotted in his hair and his teeth were grinding in frustration. And all he could hear were the voices of his fathers resentment and his mothers declination of his hopeless romantic ways. 

“You bar ridden pig! You can’t write the play without me!” rang down into his flat in the same over dramatic voice he’d been trying to ignore. He heard more muttering, screaming in French that was too quick for him to translate, and stomping, plenty of stomping. It sent him boiling over. Harry growled as he scraped the chair back, standing up and cracking his back before walking out of his flat and up the steps, his nails grinding against the railing as the voices grew louder. However, just as he made it upstairs, the door to the noisy flat opened wide, followed by a loud “Goodbye!” in the same voice that dragged him upstairs in the first place. Whoever it was barreled past Harry, scoffing at such a presence tainting his. Harry could’ve punched him right there if he wasn’t so against violence. 

The door was left agape yet he knocked on the doorframe, the voices had been dimmed to a murmur and Harry was now moreover curious than angry. “What’s all the yelling about?” and his voice was rusty from lack of use and all four of their heads snapped up from their conversation. 

“Only the most tragic loss of our only hope for our play!” said a thick french accent and Harry watched at the other three in the room rolled their eyes but nevertheless comforted the hurt one. 

“I’m-erm-very sorry for your loss,” Harry muttered awkwardly, “But perhaps you could keep your tragedies on a lower volume? You see, I’m trying to write down the flat below you and it’s hard to concentrate when-” but he was cut off by the dry voice of the one in the corner. 

“A writer?” he looked up and Harry had to force himself not to choke at the amount of cigarettes one would have to smoke to get a voice so raspy and dry as his. Harry politely nodded though, but was daft to notice that the smoker was no longer paying attention. However, conversing with the other three through silent glares before the french accent wailed again. 

“Our guardian angel! You’ve come to save us!” he wailed, clapping his hands together before standing up and walking over to Harry. He reeked of alcohol and hookah smoke and all Harry could think was welcome to Montmarte. “I am Liam, writer and actor of the Bohemian Revolution. Sorry about the arguing then! Our writer is an insufferable being, left us when we couldn’t agree on a simple line. Pity. But you’ve come to save us! You’ve come to write the play of the Bohemian Revolution!” 

Harry had to take a second to translate passed the thick french accent before smiling up at him kindly. “Certainly you don’t expect me to write the whole play, I’m sure,” he laughed kindly, shoving his hands in his tattered trousers. To be given such an opportunity was surreal. 

“Oh but of course!” and the one who seemed still in costume was standing up abruptly. He had an argentinian accent, not as thick, thankfully. 

“But I can’t! I don’t even know if I could write anything decent pertaining to the Revolution!” Which was true. Back in England he spend most of his time writing research papers pertaining to Evolution and Astrology. Though he could barely rub two pounds together when everyone was so keen on religion and conservative ideas. When the Revolution swept up Europe he only desired to live in the heart of it, Paris itself, so with all the money he had Harry left his family and very sparse amount of friends to live his dream and hopefully sell his work to the free living and the understanding. To write a play, a fiction about all that he could dream of but never grasp, well, seemed unmanageable. 

Yet by now, they were all walking towards him as he cowered by the door, they were persistent in their strides, determined to make Harry their savior from above. 

“Do you believe in truth?”

He nodded.

“Beauty?” 

“Of course.” 

“Freedom?” 

“Yes?” 

“Love?” 

That’s where Harry’s heart leaped, his favourite dream, his greatest passion. “Love. Above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen. Love lifts us up where we belong! All you need is love!” he exclaimed much to their cheering. 

“You’re the voice of the revolution!” Liam yelled past all of their cheering as the Argentinian pulled him back into the room and sat him down around them. 

And that’s how Harry was dragged into the full movement of “Féerie!” the Bohemian play about all things glorious, though nothing had been written for it yet. Their past writer only wrote scribbles, that were shot down by none other than himself when the other’s couldn’t play his parts properly. They needed approval though, for they were writing the play that would be performed at none other than Moulin Rouge, who had appointed their past writer. They explained that Harry would only be their writer if they received Master Cal’s approval first, and that they could only pursue their dreams of actually performing “Féerie!” if they got someone to invest. Which was where the most intricate of all plans were formed and where our story begins...

**Author's Note:**

> This is only the prologue! I'm still going to be writing Tumbling Like Tinsel Strings I was just way too caught up in this idea that I had to write it. Tell me what you think of it, please. Your opinions are going to determine whether I'll keep writing this or not. Love you all and thanks for reading!


End file.
